


The Calm Before the Storm

by TAFKAB



Series: Bird in a Gilded Cage [2]
Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anonymous Sex, Arranged Marriage, Bisexual Female Character, Bisexual Male Character, Blindfolds, Brother/Sister Incest, Emotional Manipulation, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, Feminist Themes, Infidelity, Lesbian Sex, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Manipulation, Multi, Other, Pain Kink, Political Alliances, Political Threats, Political coercion, Pre-Canon, References to Bestiality, Rough Sex, Secret Relationship, Threesome - F/F/M, hidden identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-05
Updated: 2017-11-05
Packaged: 2019-01-29 13:41:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12632199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TAFKAB/pseuds/TAFKAB
Summary: Shortly before the events of LOTR, Éomer returns with his men to rest and re-provision in Edoras, where he visits with Éowyn and learns the extent of Gríma Wormtongue's overthrow of Théoden's mind.





	The Calm Before the Storm

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: This series contains graphic depictions of brother/sister incest and other potentially offensive kinks such as bestiality, cousin incest, manipulative sexual negotiations, infidelity, promiscuity, etc. **PLEASE READ THE TAGS for each story, and DO NOT READ THE STORIES if the tags disturb you.** I don't know how to be any more clear than that, people! 
> 
>  
> 
> **YOU ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR CURATING YOUR OWN READING EXPERIENCE. I HAVE GIVEN YOU THE TOOLS TO DO SO. USE THEM RESPONSIBLY.**

Éomer felt more than weary. He ascended the hill to Edoras at an amble, his éored trailing away behind him in a long and shambling line. They were all spent-- they had fought many orcs and some of them were wounded. A number of horses were lamed; many needed shoeing, and their provisions had run desperately short. They had camped for months in the wild, reduced to poor rations and scavenging. Now the autumn was fading, and the bite of winter drew nigh. Théodred agreed-- it was past time to reward them with rest and feasting-- and the giving of treasures to reward faithful service. 

Éomer led the way to the stables-- and departed with a promise to call the men all to feast with him later. Before that he must report to his uncle and see how Théoden fared. He also looked forward to seeing Éowyn, who had been abiding there since he departed, keeping watch over the king. 

Éomer felt deeply troubled for her; when he last left Edoras, he had expected to return within the turning of the moon-- or perhaps two. Instead eight moons passed, leaving her closeted here by herself-- trapped, as she would have it, denied even the poor freedom of battle.

He sighed. It was three years and more since he had first taken command of an éored of his own, and during that dark time he had learned battle made a very poor freedom indeed. 

Háma greeted him at the portal with a dark look, but stood aside courteously to admit him within. “The King awaits. Our lookouts reported your party’s return two hours past.” He lowered his voice. “The king’s counselor says our lord is not best pleased with you. You have not yet been formally summoned to return to this hall.”

“I will take the blame for that,” Éomer said, standing straight. “Théodred and I both deemed it necessary.” He walked inside. “Men have forsaken their hearths through the entire planting and harvest season. They are weary and poorly fed; many require physic. Their families require their just reward to ensure against the bite of winter.” He did not keep his voice low as he strode past Hama, spying Gríma waiting at the end of the hall, sitting in shadows with Théoden-King.

Éomer stopped short, struggling to cover his surprise—Théoden had aged many winters in the few months of his absence, and sat stooped and grey upon his throne, his eyes wandering.

“Why have you come, son of Éomund? The farmsteads and town of the west require your protection.” Gríma stood and sidled forward, casting an obsequious glance toward Théoden as though acknowledging him for the words spoken. 

“So close to the mountains the snow has already begun to fall,” Éomer said. “The orcs have retreated to their holes to gather strength anew. We have done valiant battle against them.” He had worse news to tell, but chose to delay it until he could be alone with his uncle-- if that were indeed possible. 

His eyes slid aside to Théoden; who regarded him, impassive. He seemed to wander in wit-- a dotard, far from the king Éomer remembered, barely able to sit straight in his throne. He did not speak yet, seeming content to allow Gríma to talk for him.

Éomer went to one knee before the king, bowing his head. “As my uncle the king has taught me, men and horses should not be ridden to the death unless the emergency that drives the commander is the most dire. I judge it is not... yet.” He let the final word fall with a thump, ripples of silence spreading out from his statement, slowly penetrating to the very edges of the hall. 

His eyes slid aside, and he perceived Éowyn standing there, the hem of her rich brocade skirts draped gracefully about her feet. He did not dare look up from his obeisance, but he greatly desired to see her face, to find how she fared. She stood very still, well back from the throne, a considerable distance to the side. It troubled him. Before, she had always stood close at Théoden’s shoulder, ready to serve in an instant.

Gríma stepped forward, circling around him with a slow gait.

“Will you not greet me, my uncle?” Éomer dared to challenge the king directly. 

Théoden roused slowly and tightened his fingers on the arms of his throne. His voice whispered and creaked when he spoke. “Welcome back to my hall, Éomer son of Éomund. You lead back nearly all of your men. For that, at least, I am pleased.” His voice sounded faintly distant, distracted. Éowyn shifted, her feet shuffling in place for a moment; then she stilled herself again.

“I ask that we feast the men tonight,” Éomer said. “They have earned it.”

“They will be feasted and rewarded for their fealty, as agreed when I called them to serve. Choose champions from among them for special distinction-- for bravery and mettle,” Théoden directed with a flicker of his old energy, his focus resting on Éomer for a time, then wandering away again, distrait.

“But the king has instructed me to say you will not count yourself among that number,” Gríma said softly, so quietly that many present would not hear. “Not until you learn the virtue of obedience.”

Éomer flashed him a quelling glare, but kept his peace. He would wait until he had spoken to his sister to learn the lay of the land before he dared cross words with Gríma. 

“Of course,” he said coolly, but it was Théoden toward whom he inclined his head. “I live to serve my king.”

Éomer rose and glanced toward Éowyn at last; she drifted toward the rear exit, her eyes downcast. She seemed thin, he thought, but still quite fair. Her eyes flashed up and met his; a spark leapt between them that left him breathless, his blood alighting.

Nothing had changed; nothing at all. During their times apart, he always grew to doubt his memories of their reckless unions-- or to think them a mere fluke, a mad whim of ill-judged moments that could not occur again-- but seeing her look upon him, beholding the parting of her lips and the slight gasp she made at the sight, it all came rushing back.

Éomer shifted his feet, easing the sudden constriction on his cock. Powers forgive him, one sight of her and he was accursed all over again! 

He strolled after Éowyn casually, as if he were not following her at all, greeting his particular friends among the company. All seemed restrained and sober; many glances turned toward Théoden as though they worried the king would mark them speaking to an out-of-favor captain and remember it to hold it against them at a later time.

Éomer took pity on them and escaped from each after exchanging only a few curt words of greeting. Then he slipped through the doorway, relieved to be gone from the hall, and took the steps two at a time as he descended to the family levels in search of his sister. 

Éowyn awaited by a disused guest chamber near the end of the hall, tarrying as though she examined damage done to a tapestry by moths, holding a taper in the long white fingers of one hand. Beholding him approaching, she slipped through the portal, leaving it ajar behind her.

He closed it behind himself, isolating them together. She bent and kindled the fire, then lit a lantern and turned to him, tossing the taper atop the logs.

“Éowyn.” His words abandoned him, leaving him dry-mouthed and graceless. Her beauty in the sudden flare of golden light ravished him.

Éowyn smiled upon him, bitter. “I at least am glad you have come home. Gríma Wormtongue has not been idle in your absence.” 

She was indeed thin and paler than her wont-- she must have spent nearly the entire eight months of his campaign mewed up indoors. 

“So I have seen in my poor welcome,” Éomer said, voice grave. “What then has he achieved?”

“It is he who convinced the king to discourage your return, and also Théodred’s.” Anger whitened the narrow line of her lips. “You were both to keep your men in the field and fight through the winter-- and longer still. The threat of orcs is real, but there are other captains. Any of them might lead a portion of our troops against them for a time-- Dunhere, Erkenbrand, Elfhelm, or Grimbold…!” her voice rose, turning bitter. “The Wormtongue wishes you dead, and Théodred as well, or I am a spavined old nag unfit to winch water from a well!”

“That you surely are not.” Éomer had arrived at the same conclusions as she within minutes of entering Meduseld. “The Wormtongue’s counsels are folly.”

“Folly, but to the king, they are as gold, mined and smelted by the dwarves and worked by elves into fine adornments.” She began to pace, so furious her skirts snapped about her. “My brother, I try to combat his loathsome words, but when I dare speak I am accounted as naught-- denied my place by the king’s side and sent away to labor with the lesser women!” She held out her hands, showing wrinkles there made by a day spent in wash-water. 

“None serve the king but Gríma, and he listens to none but Gríma.” She grasped a stray scrap of cloth and flung it into the fire. “And I must stay and watch our noble uncle slip away while-- hst!” She cut the air with the blade of her palm, then crept to the door to listen for a time before she straightened again. “No, it was a rat, I think, creeping through the walls. I have come to suspect all my maids of carrying tales, and others at court as well,” she said, more quietly. “Gríma pays them for their gossip.”

Éomer frowned. “What may be done?”

“I know not.” Éowyn began to pace. “None may question the king-- which means none may question the Wormtongue-- or punishment, swift and harsh, will follow. Kinship with Théoden is no protection from his wrath. So beware, brother.” She faced him, hands outstretched, palms open, and tenderness overcame him. He stepped forward and drew her close, holding her too-slim form against him, wishing he could protect her always.

She let herself be held, sighing and sagging against him-- as much weakness as he had ever seen her display, perhaps, since she came of age.

“How is our cousin?” she asked. “He has been long away.”

“Théodred is well. He leads our men well, with firm purpose,” was the only answer he could give. 

“When you return, tell him I have missed him,” she said simply, and her eyes were dry, but he felt her shoulders shake. 

“You have suffered privations worse than my own,” he said softly. 

Éowyn nestled against him with a sigh; he sensed her putting away her cares, justas he had set his own fears aside. “Not the least of them being a cold and solitary bed.”

Heat flared in him anew. “If that is so, then at least it may be amended.” 

“For your part, I am sure you have not gone without!” She laughed up at him then. “You have many lusty men in your éored.”

“Yes. And if there were not men enough, there were plenty of sheep, every one of them more tractable than you.” 

“If the men of the line breed sheep into the line of Éorl, then it is no wonder Wormtongue finds his road to power among us!”

“I would rather lie alone and think of you than worry the sheep.” Éomer turned her in his arms and pulled her against him, letting her feel how ready he was. 

“Then deny yourself no longer,” she laughed, nestling her arse against him, and his hands flew to her laces, which slid through their eyelets with a hiss like a snake. 

Her dress loosened and fell easily to puddle about her ankles; he untied her shift and sent it tumbling to follow, heedless of the dusty floor.

She stood between him and the fire, the golden light glowing in the fine down of blonde hair all over her skin, tantalizing shadows dancing between her shoulders and in the small of her back. Glancing over her shoulder, she smiled, impish. She kicked off her shoes and stepped up onto the hearth, setting her palms against the wooden mantel.

“A convenient height for a man of your stature, I think,” she said. “Others are not so tall as you, but you carry your height in your waist, my brother, and I can adjust my position.” She gave him a truly wicked smile, spreading her thighs.

Flickering flame seemed to dance around her. “What others do you mean?” Éomer drifted forward, unable to resist, and slid his palms up the insides of her thighs. She shivered, and he nosed along her neck, avoiding the knot of her hair gathered at her nape. His hands closed over her hips, tilting her forward; she set her feet to suit him and bent her head forward, the picture of submission.

“The embassy of Gondor visited not long past,” she murmured, smug. “Led by doughty men and strong-- yet easily tempted.”

“Were they.” Éomer drew a long slow breath, savoring the scent of her: herbed soap, sweet rosewater, and horses. His cock nestled against her, seeking, and found the haven it sought.

He paused there, savoring his anticipation for a long, breathless moment-- then rammed into her with ferocious strength, lifting her up onto her toes.

“Oh!” she gasped, her head falling back against his shoulder. Her arms quivered, but she held firm; his fingers indented the tender flesh of her hips as he steadied her. 

“Again,” she keened, urgent—so he took her again, driving so deep he nudged her womb. She gave a choked cry, swaying against him; he took no mercy on her, giving her the brutal fucking she craved.

“No Gondorean fop will fuck you half so well as I,” he promised her, speeding his thrusts until the choking gasps from her throat ran together in a wail. “None knows you as I do.” He freed a hand and slid it downward, seeking her soft-furred mound and sinking two fingers inside the hot, slippery welcome he found there.

She moaned and her skin grew slick with sweat, the heat of the fire baking into them. He wrapped his free arm around her waist to hold her still as he fingered her and fucked her fiercely, biting his lip and struggling to restrain himself—persisting until she whimpered, frantic, quivering and arching in his arms. Then he dug his nails into the sensitive bud, wrapping his other hand over her mouth to stifle her full-throated cries. She writhed, shuddering and jerking against him as climax seized her. In the throes of her pleasure she squeezed him so tight he saw stars, and he sank his teeth into her shoulder as he came. 

She swayed in his arms and he caught her, easing her into his arms and carrying her to the half-open bed. They fell onto the feather mattress together, pleasantly weary. Damp with sweat, Eowyn nestled against him for warmth and he covered them both with a thick quilt. 

It was a strange peace lying there together unspeaking, but Éomer found his sister’s company quite pleasant for all of that. After their parents died, they had formed an understanding no others could rival—a shared experience; a common sympathy. At first it had been the two of them against the world alone together. Then Théoden had taken them under his wing. But now that their uncle’s wisdom failed, they were left together once more. 

None other who now lived remembered Éowyn as Éomer did—first as a tiny babe swaddled in her cradle, then a bright-eyed child, a young girl pursuing him always and demanding to try his sword until he was half-maddened by the chore of keeping it from her—none other had stood to dry the tears welling in her eyes if she were cut or bruised in sparring after he gave up and began to teach her. Surely none who remembered her thus could bear to trammel her or forbid her aught she wanted. 

Perhaps in the absence of their mother, she should have had a sister or an aunt to turn to, not a brother. But she had not at first—and by the time they had removed to Edoras, a tomboy’s ways were already set in the grain of her.

As with no other woman of his knowledge, Éomer need not fear Eowyn wished to wed him. For her part, she need not fear he meant to forbid her freedom.

“You have gained much skill in my absence,” Éomer said without rancor, stroking his fingertips along the gentle arch and glide of her waist as they lay resting. 

“The better to please you,” she laughed. “The embassy was led by Boromir, the steward’s son of Gondor. They are beset; orcs from Mordor are garrisoned in Minus Morgul, and venture forth in ever greater numbers. They campaign now to take the outpost of Osgiliath. The lord Denethor wished Théoden-king to send troops to aid in its defense.” Her voice turned sober. “Gríma did not wish to honor the old agreements, of course, and thus he advised my uncle, who said we have none to spare, given our own troubled borders. Boromir stayed for many days hoping to persuade him—or mayhap his only purpose in staying so long was to tarry with me; I know not. He had business in the west and though I bade him stay, he set forth for the gap to attend it.”

Éomer lay quiet for long minutes as she drowsed in his arms, pondering what she had said. It was ill news indeed-- that Gondor would come, seeking aid, and that they had been sent away empty-handed. His own news was worsened in light of this tale. Perhaps Gríma himself was a traitor… but no. How could such a thing be true of a man of Rohan, one of the eorlingas, no matter how craven or low? Gríma was merely a parasite upon the throne, obsessed with gaining power. It must be so.

“Business to the west? It seems strange to me that Boromir and his embassy passed our armies without alerting the sentries.” Éomer forced a cheer he did not feel and set his grim thoughts aside. He lifted himself on one elbow to survey his sister; she appeared serene. “How was he to you?” A devil of curiosity drove him, and a flicker of jealousy; a sturdy man of Rohan could surely serve a woman better than any spoiled son of Gondor.

“He was lusty and hot abed, with a talented tongue and good staying power.” A frown creased her brow. “I made him labor hard and long all the nights of his sojourn with us, and yet he would not spend inside my cunt. My hand, my mouth, my arse—all were his lust, but not the other. I believe he thought I meant to trap him into marriage by means of conceiving a child.”

Éomer considered this and secretly judged Boromir had been wise indeed—unfortunately so, for Éowyn. To be the wife of the steward’s son in Gondor would ensure she never spent a day raising puling bratlings in a farmer’s cot, and it would take her far from Gríma Wormtongue. She would command great power and respect in such a position. The only reason he, Éomer, was not the target of such a trap was that the others among the Rohirrim would not abide a marriage between sister and brother. No, Eowyn had other uses for him, ones less fraught with peril, ones he could well understand and endure, even enjoy.

“Boromir spoke with fondness of his younger brother, and I urged him to return, bringing this brother, that they might share me between them.” She smiled at the thought. “For I would gladly be fucked by more than one at once—by many the night through. You bested me once, brother, but I was unskilled then. You men are all fire and fury until you come, and then you sleep when I would ride on.” She reached for Éomer and took his cock in her hand, but he was yet limp. It would take time for him to rise to her again, so he was forced to grant the truth of her words. 

“Wicked, greedy woman.” Éomer slid his hand between her legs and began to ply her with his fingers. He was sleepy indeed; the ground made a poor bed, and he had slept long outdoors with only poor homespun for shelter. 

She purred, shifting and writhing against him as he caressed her, her cries soft and sweet as he took his time in pleasing her. Her body clasped about his fingers so warmly his cock began to stir at last. Feeling it lift for her, she pressed against him, encouraging him on. “I have taken another lover also,” she told him, lifting her thigh to invite him in.

“Did you?” he wondered if he truly wanted to hear—and knowing she would tell him, whether he willed it or no.

“It is a woman,” she whispered, sly with delight.

Éomer blinked and hung fire, poised to enter her from behind. He had heard of such things, but hardly imagined they could be real. 

“Then you have no need of me at all.” He pushed into her with more force than he had intended, and she gasped her pleasure in it, writhing against him. 

“I said not so. You should conceal yourself and watch the two of us lie together,” she teased, tightening her flesh around him. “I greatly enjoyed watching you with Théodred. I do not doubt you would be roused by such a sight.”

Éomer gasped, picturing the two of them in an embrace; he hardly knew what they might do—but he could guess. So many soft breasts, lean waists, and long pale legs… the two of them kissing, Éowyn’s fair head nestled between slim white thighs….

“To watch from concealment would be to abandon honor,” Éomer chastised her, feeling very much a fool as he spoke; to debate the finer points of morality with his cock buried to the root in his own sister…. “I will not do it in secret.”

“You are still more than half a prude,” she laughed. “And a very dull one, my brother. She would not mind a watcher, if he were trusty and did not tell others of what he saw.”

Éomer growled with mild annoyance then and twisted Éowyn gently about to silence her with his mouth-- so he might escape her prattle while he sought his pleasure.

*****

When he could do no more, Éomer slipped away to his own room. There was yet time to rest before he must bathe and dress himself for the feasting.

After only an hour or two of sleep he arose and made himself ready, then went forth to join the feasting. Éowyn was already present when he arrived, seeming fresh and rested. Her grey eyes rested on him briefly before drifting away; his did not follow her as she moved about, working her way through various courtiers. She was serving food and drink, and she seemed the very model of a fine lady: mild and meek, deferring to all with sweet smiles and gentle words. She had learned the role of a courtier well—so much so it disturbed him. 

How much of his sister’s sweetness—her kindness, the friendship she displayed for all—how much of it was real and how much feigned? How much of the innocent, kind-hearted girl he had thought he knew remained, and how much of this was merely a front to cover Éowyn’s bitterness? If Théoden were himself once more, would she laugh and smile in truth?

He leaned his shoulders against the wall as another lady of the court approached him, declining her offer of food but accepting watered wine to sip. For Éowyn to make such pretense over time was a dangerous business. The more she pretended to be what she was not, the more bitterness would grow within her, until her smiles grew sharp as knives and every laugh was a lie. She might in time become a hollow shell of compliance masking deep discontent, no longer certain of her own true self—what was real and what was false. She might grow so miserable she was no longer able to trust happiness enough to allow herself to feel it. 

As he watched, he became aware of an oddity among the women. Perhaps it was his own unwonted closeness with Éowyn that alerted him to a subtle difference in the way she treated one of the handmaidens who assisted her. She behaved very coolly toward the woman, addressing her less than others… but they moved in harmony, actions complementing one another, the smoothness of their cooperation hinting not at discord but rather at its opposite. Éomer’s heart told him this must be his sister’s lover, and he thought it wise of them to conceal even their friendship.

Yet he marked the Wormtongue’s eyes following them as they drew the corks from bottles of wine and mead, smoldering with some unpleasant emotion, and alarm grew in his breast. He had not expected Gríma to be so perceptive. But perhaps where matters concerned Éowyn, the man held a particular interest. Éomer shifted, his dagger hand itching, all instincts warning him against Gríma’s interest in his sister. 

The two women parted after refilling pitchers with wine and did not approach one another again. 

Eomer sat down to meat—placed at Théoden’s left, a deliberate slight Éomer did not object to, though his captains stirred and frowned on his behalf. He called one of them to sit at his side.

“Herugrim, my heart misgives me. We will be sent out again before Yule,” Éomer said quietly. “Have your men attend their personal business swiftly.”

“But Erkenbrand stands ready with five hundreds; he is prepared to take the field.”

“If we are not beset by fresh attacks before my purpose can be met, I will meet with him and suggest we arrange a quiet exchange of men, sword for sword, my liegemen for his, to rest our troops through midwinter,” Éomer decided. “We will let those with wives and children go first. Do not speak of this until I give you leave. We will be far from Edoras when it is done.”

“Yes, lord.” Herugrim stuck his fork through his meat and took a hearty bite, then addressed himself to his ale. 

Théoden rose then to commend the men—and as Éomer expected, he spoke of the need for continued protection and offered only a brief respite to the men before the resumption of their duties. His voice frosty, he called on Éomer to commend those who had displayed special valor.

Éomer did so, aware of many eyes fixed on him—feeling the burden of command heavy on his shoulders. He was not merely burdened with the responsibility of sending men to their deaths in battle, but with the need to care for them in every way. He hid his dismay at the knowledge he must do what he could to protect them from his own uncle, their king. 

No. Not from Théoden. Rather from Wormtongue and his pernicious influence.

“For great valor in the face of mortal peril, I commend Garulf unto Théoden-king,” Éomer said. “In his first battle, this man stood before a troop of orcs with broken sword and defended his comrades and his mount—he stole a knife from a fallen foe and would not flee; he fought until all his enemies lay at his feet, save those who fled his wrath.” 

Garulf stood forth—a rangy youth with the lanky awkwardness of youth lingering in his limbs and barely a hint of downy beard—but when Théoden made to give him a golden coin, Gríma stepped between them.

“Garulf, you are yet young. Majesty, behold; surely such a man would value his future more than mere gold.” 

Théoden nodded vaguely, withdrawing his hand.

“I have spoken of late to the king’s close kin through Helm Hammerhand; their daughter Mayda serves today within Edoras. They spoke of their dismay to me; she is past marriageable age, but has no prospects befitting her station. Now here is Garulf, a young hero with a future of great deeds before him, one who has no wife. Do you, young warrior?”

“No, sir,” Garulf gulped, the apple of his throat jerking up and down. 

“My king, what better reward for a young hero than a bride to keep his house and bear him strong sons—strong sons who will help to defend the realm when he is old?”

Éomer blinked with dismay, but Théoden was already nodding accord. “A wise suggestion, Gríma,” he said. “Let them be wed.”

Motion behind the king drew Éomer’s eye; Mayda wavered, near fainting, and Éowyn bore her up, one hand under her elbow. Her eyes flashed toward Éomer—but what could he do? Théoden had spoken his will openly before the gathering. 

“Come forth, Mayda,” Gríma cooed, his voice cloying sweet. “I will pout your hand in the hand of your betrothed.”

After a moment Éowyn urged Mayda forward, and Mayda went wit her lip bitten, her eyes downcast. She walked slowly as though stunned, her feet dragging, but could not escape. Gríma caught her hand and offered it to Garulf, who shyly took it. 

“Let the wedding take place before the éored returns to the field,” he decreed. “Tomorrow at sunset.”

“Mayda’s family will not be here by that time to see their daughter wed,” Éomer protested. “A messenger will barely reach their hold in two days.”

“But the éored will depart before they could arrive in any case, and you are not so cruel you would see the young groom deprived of his honeymoon.” Gríma swept past to Théoden’s side and helped him rise, a clear signal the matter as settled. “Tomorrow in the hall at sunset. My lord will preside, as is his right—he is her closest kin here.”

Théoden made the men a mumbling toast before Gríma led him away to his chambers.

****

The evening stretched long; several of the ladies departed with Mayda, and Éowyn took their places, serving mead to all the men of the éored with her own hands. She pretended to good cheer, but Éomer could read the lines of strain pinched about her mouth. He drank only sparingly and she not at all.

It was long past middle-night when the last of the revelers succumbed to the strong ale and mead. They slept where they lay, slumped atop the table or stretched out on the benches of the mead hall, some lying in puddles of spilled drink, others half-entwined with one another on the floor. 

Éomer rose and took his leave in silence, taking a roundabout path to meet with Éowyn in her trysting-room. It would be a sleepless night, he knew; there was much to discuss—and they would take whatever comfort they might from one another, for he must set out again ere long.

His sister would not come to bed to be comforted, though he spent long trying to persuade her. Instead she paced back and forth through the chamber, turning so sharply her skirts whisked against the floor with a snap. 

“Gríma desires me for his own,” she said flatly. “He has divined that Mayda and I are friends—I do not think he knows more. Yet even so, he has plotted to send her from my side. He would leave me prisoned here alone and friendless, with none save him to turn to. He will ply his wicked words, hoarding power bit by bit until he finds the chance he awaits: the day he can convince our uncle to give me to him for his bride. The evils of this day make the mold for that one—the giving of a woman’s hand without her consent or heart, to a man she has never met! It is no less than slavery, my brother!”

“Garulf is no slavemaster,” Éomer protested. “He is a good lad. This marriage was not of his choosing, either.”

“Choice or no, custom decrees he will be given mastery over Mayda. When they are wed, she will pass from her father’s keeping to his; he will breed her and she will labor to keep his house and hold. His fortunes will be hers, be they much or little. She will have no choice in it.” Éowyn’s cheeks had flushed mottled red over ashen pallor. “And so shall I be given over to the Wormtongue when his plans are ripe!”

“Our uncle would not do such.”

“You have not watched our uncle’s decline as I have,” she spat bitterly. “Gríma speaks for him more often than he speaks for himself now. In a year, Théoden son of Thengel will not speak at all!”

“Shush,” Éomer begged her. “Your anger makes you speak too loudly. Such words are treason!”

“You are right.” Her breast heaved with her anger, and she struggled to calm herself, voice dropping to a hiss. “But I speak treason not against Théoden of Rohan, but rather against Gríma, the Wormtongue, who poisons his wits!”

A rattle announced a key in the lock; Éowyn gasped with alarm. “Into the bed and hide yourself!”

With nowhere else to go, Éomer obeyed, diving for the bed and dragging the blankets over his face.

“Mayda, it is you,” Éowyn gasped with relief, and to his dismay, Éomer heard the portal shut with the woman’s frantic sobbing on the inside of it. 

“Éowyn I cannot do this. I will not! He will take me from here; I will be left friendless and forsaken when this… foul brute of a husband… rides away, leaving his whelp in my belly!”

Éowyn clucked and comforted, but she could offer no true comfort. 

As she tried, Éomer lay ill-at-ease and listened to the ladies weep and murmur. Garulf was a good man and no brute; he was sure of his estimate of the lad’s character. But in truth Garulf knew little of women and would have no father at hand to instruct him before his wedding night. Éomer determined he would take on that awkward duty for himself; he might do much to ease the couple’s future together. 

“But I interrupt. You are here with a lover,” Mayda said suddenly, miserable. “Fortunate you are, Éowyn, that your uncle’s name protects you! …Is it brave Boromir, come to tarry with you again—? But no, all would have seen him ride near and the village would be loud with the tale of his return.”

“It is not,” Éowyn said, soft. 

“A man of the éored, then—a true man, not a half-grown lout,” Mayda murmured.

First a foul brute, then a half-grown lout? It seemed Garulf’s stature changed with each passing moment. Éomer shifted, embarrassed, then flinched when her hand settled upon his ankle.

“A warrior bred, a man of allegiance to the house of Éorl,” Mayda said, and Éomer shifted with dread, wondering how much of his livery showed. Was her grasp of heraldry enough that she might recognize him? 

“Good sir,” Mayda’s voice quavered. “Forgive me for my boldness. But I am given little time in which I may yet choose my path, and you are close to one who is dear to me. I crave a boon.”

He heard Éowyn draw a swift breath—and he need not ponder to understand what that boon might be. With Éowyn as her teacher, this woman would push defiance as far as she might.

“Yes, a boon,” Éowyn said, her voice quickening with pleasure. “A chance—”

“To choose, yes.” Mayda firmed her voice, decisive. “To give my maidenhood where I will, not to a slave-master of Gríma’s choosing.” Her hand closed on Éomer’s ankle, fingers curling lightly over the top of his low boot. 

“My lover may not speak,” Éowyn said, voice taut with excitement. “For there are those who might be shamed were our union to be known. But come with me and I will bind your eyes, and together we will do this thing.”

Éomer rolled his eyes and thought of flight. Encumbered by his concealing blanket, he judged it unlikely he might make it to the door before they tripped him.

Alas for poor Garulf, to be cuckolded thus by his own captain before he ever wed! 

Éowyn was careful in her work, making pads of cloth to place over Mayda’s eyes and binding them with the sash from her own dress. “You will not regret this night,” she said, soothing her friend as she made the knot fast. “For my lover is kind, handsome, and strong. He is a man wise of word, noble of blood, and bold of deed, both in battle and in love. He will satisfy you well.”

Éomer squirmed with discomfort despite the flattery. Mayda was comely enough, but his conscience goaded him with remorse. Where was the line Éowyn would not cross? Was there such a line at all? He suspected there was not. 

And yet… Gríma’s plan was unfair and Éomer knew his sister judged aright. The Wormtongue meant to establish the tradition in court of giving brides in exchange for service to the king, so he might one day profit from it himself. 

Mayda stood blindfold before him, Éowyn at her side; her tongue darted out to wet her lips. Éomer knew she must be terrified-- perhaps nearly as much of him as of her own impending marriage. Both represented a great unknown. 

“I shall begin and make you ready,” Éowyn said. “I think milord would take great pleasure in watching us together. Later he will join us.”

Mayda nodded, her cheeks flushed deep crimson. Éomer regarded her-- she was dark where Éowyn was fair; where the sun had kissed her skin, it turned rich golden-brown, hinting that there were men of Harad in her father-tree. She was not tall, but she was lush, all rounded curves where Éowyn was slim and willowy. He could well imagine the pleasure of filling his senses with her bare flesh. 

Éowyn reached to run delicate fingertips over her collarbone, drawing Éomer’s gaze. She wore a dress with a taut, boned bodice, lifting her breasts high amidst a ruffle of lace. They looked like two doves sharing a nest, round and smooth, nestled close together. Éowyn lifted one out, its nipple a dark rose-gold that gave truth to Éomer’s guesses about Mayda’s lineage. 

Éowyn bent and closed her mouth over the nipple, suckling. Éomer drew a soft breath of pleasure at the same moment Mayda did. Mayda’s head tipped back and her lips parted; her curly hair cascaded down her back, catching red highlights against the fire. 

Deftly Éowyn unlaced Mayda’s bodice, then pulled the dress off her, leaving her standing in her shift. It was damp from the heat, sticking to her body and concealing nothing. Éomer’s gaze was drawn to the dark triangle between Mayda’s thighs, and his cock stirred with interest. Garulf would be fortunate indeed, could he persuade this woman to welcome him in her bed. He shifted his thighs, giving himself room for his interest.

“He likes what he sees,” Éowyn told her softly. “His manhood rises for you without delay.”

It was Éomer’s turn to flush crimson; his sister’s lack of shame forever surprised him anew. 

Éowyn stepped behind Mayda, sweeping her hair out of the way, and leaned in to nibble at her exposed throat, lifting both breasts out of her shift and running her fingers over the nipples as she kissed and bit her way up to Mayda’s ear. Mayda uttered a soft cry, tipping her head to offer her throat; her imperiled shift slipped down along the slope of her shoulders, sliding with maddening reluctance, then suddenly fell to her waist, exposing the shadowed hollow of her navel.

Éomer swallowed thickly. Éowyn purred against Mayda’s throat, then let one hand fall to pull the shift down. She helped Mayda stand free of it, turning her body so the firelight caught its curves and caressed them. Her hair trailed down over one breast, long and wild, and Éomer thought with longing of tangling his fingers in its length. 

“Both my lovers are very beautiful,” Éowyn mused, her palm sliding along Mayda’s waist. “Come to bed.”

She led Mayda along the flagstone floor to the bed, which Éomer vacated for them, drawing up a chair so he might sit and watch as they made sport together.

Éowyn arranged Mayda on her back, sparing no chance to caress and kiss her as she did, then leaned to take one from him as well, her lips clinging, lazy and hot. 

“Watch without shame,” she counseled warmly against his lips. “For we feel none in what we do. It is pleasure, and we choose it freely.” Her palm trailed across his breeches, caressing his imprisoned shaft before she left him and knelt between Mayda’s thighs.

At first she laid herself atop Mayda and kissed her-- soft wet sounds, the shine of pink tongues gliding together, feminine whimpers and moans making Éomer’s head swim with heat. Then she began to work her way down, much as a man would-- lingering to lay kisses and bites at the notch below Mayda’s throat as though to torment her with anticipation.

Éomer wiped sweat from his forehead and licked dry lips; the four breasts before him pressed together, and the fit should have been awkward, but the way each woman’s soft flesh accommodated the other’s weight made curves and lines between them that destroyed his wits and left him stiff with urgent need and panting for breath.

Then Éowyn raised herself and settled her lips over Mayda’s breast, suckling in earnest. Soon Mayda was writhing, her white thighs open about Éowyn’s waist, little cries constant in her throat. Éowyn smiled, tugging with her teeth, and released the nipple, blowing on it lightly to make it crinkle. Then she moved to the other side, wisps of her blond hair trailing across Mayda’s wet skin, some catching in the wet left by her mouth. Her fingers tormented the rosy, flesh she had left, pinching and twisting, and Mayda writhed in response, lifting her hips, shyly begging Éowyn to move lower.

Éomer shifted again, constrained by his breeches, trying to resist the temptation to reach within and free his cock. He must hold back if he meant to satisfy both of them later-- and he did; one would not suffice. 

Éowyn raised herself at last, giving him a wicked smirk-- when had his wrist crept behind his belt? Éomer cleared his throat, embarrassed, but did not remove it. She moved down, suckling occasional kisses here and there along the smooth flat belly until she knelt between Mayda’s knees. 

“Mayda does not like to be hurt as I do,” she said, her voice clear and sweet. “She responds best to a soft tongue, well-plied.”

Éomer nodded stupidly, watching with his breath caged in his throat as Éowyn lifted Mayda’s thighs and arranged them over her shoulders, then parted her and bent in. She kissed the insides of Mayda’s thighs, stopping short of marking her, then opened her, regarding her and letting Éomer look his fill. 

Then she descended, her soft pink tongue gleaming, and Mayda moaned, writhing on the bed, her fists twisting in the sheets. 

Éomer’s body nearly caught flame as Éowyn dragged her tongue through Mayda’s gleaming folds; his whole skin burned, and his cock glowed with pleasure like iron heated in forge-fire, stiff and eager in his hand. 

Éowyn hummed, licking slow trails along the sides of the bud, then circling it; Mayda’s thighs quivered, her feet braced against the sheets, her knees raised. 

Éomer did not know when he had drawn so close, but he sat with his knees thrust hard against the bed, rapt as Éowyn slid two fingers inside Mayda’s body and withdrew them, gleaming with slick, soft moisture. He reached out with a trembling hand and stroked Éowyn’s back. She was hot and damp, yet in her shift, and her eyes flickered to him, but she did not stop the motion of her tongue. Instead she pressed against Mayda’s thigh so that it would lie flat against the bed, so that he might see with ease.

Mayda moaned again, shifting with restless need. Éowyn withdrew her fingers, then moved lower, delving her tongue inside, rubbing her nose against the gleaming bud as she fucked Mayda with her tongue. Her fingers disappeared again, pushing inside Mayda’s arse, and Mayda gave a keening help.

“Éowyn, please!” 

Éomer groaned and closed his eyes, squeezing desperately at the base of his cock to stop himself from spending then and there. Fuck, what he would not give to be buried in one of them-- either of them, fucking her, making her make those sounds…!

“She is slick and eager,” Éowyn said to him softly, lifting her face, her lips gleaming with wet. “Soon she will be ready for you.”

Éomer seized her and kissed the salty moisture from her lips, driving his tongue into her mouth with a desperation he could not control. 

When he released her, Éowyn straightened, smug. “We do not usually do as we are now,” she said, and a little smile curved the corner of her mouth. “We please one another at the same time-- thus.”

She drew away and removed her shift, moving in haste, then returned to Mayda, who reached for her without hesitation-- and guided her down lying opposite.

In a moment the two were at it again-- but this time with Éowyn lying reversed atop Mayda, both their faces buried, both tongues working.

Éomer savaged his lip, fighting his need to seize one of them, to bury himself and to come. Éowyn made no effort to conceal her pleasure, gasping and whimpering aloud as was her custom. Mayda held her beautifully open-- all the bits of her exposed, pink and gleaming-- and Éomer wanted to fill them both so badly he could taste it. 

He reached and caressed Éowyn’s breast, pinching her nipple and making her utter a muffled gasp.

Leaving his chair, Éomer He buried three fingers at once in his sister’s flesh and Éowyn cried out, her body clenching tight.

“He is impatient,” she said, breathless. “He is in need-- _oh!”_ Eomer fucked her with his fingers as Mayda flicked her tongue against Éowyn, then squeezed her between straight white teeth.

Éowyn squealed, muffled, and came, a gush of hot silk around Éomer’s fingers. She collapsed, moaning, and Éomer moved her-- less gently than he ought, rolling her from Mayda, who lay open, uncertain, her head moving as though she would seek him with her eyes.

Éomer rubbed his thumb over Mayda’s lips, and she hesitated, then parted them to admit it, sucking softly at the horned calluses there, licking away the taste of Eowyn. 

“Yes,” Éowyn purred. “She is ready for you now.”

Éomer bent and kissed Mayda, tasting Éowyn on her lips-- licking and suckling at her mouth until all he could taste was her, unfamiliar but sweet. Her lips parted and her tongue touched his, shy but willing; he put his knee onto the bed, ready to cover her.

“Men have no brains when their cocks are hard,” Éowyn said, sultry but impatient. She scrambled to sit up and worked his belt with nimble fingers. “You have not even removed your boots!”

Éomer suffered her interference-- for she was right-- while thwarting her as much as he might by kissing Mayda, escaping again and again from Éowyn’s exasperated efforts to haul his surcoat and shirt over his head and pry off his boots and his breeches. By the time he was naked, both women were frustrated and laughing; Mayda reached up boldly to explore his face with her fingertips. 

“Milord, you are comely as Éowyn said,” she stroked his brow and his cheekbones, then trailed her fingers over his lips. He kissed her fingertips gently; the urgency of his need had ebbed, but he was still hot for her. “And as gallant.”

It was all he could stand; his cock swung free, and his balls ached with his need.

“Slowly,” Éowyn chided him when he would have lain down upon Mayda at once. He heeded her counsel, lying instead at Mayda’s side and turning her to face him.

Kisses first-- long and slow and sweet, learning the depths of her mouth. She nestled closer to him as they kissed, and soon their entire skins were touching, the lush softness of her body delightful and warm against him. 

He let her explore him, her hands hesitant and shy at first-- shaping the rounds of his shoulders and sliding along the bunched muscle of his upper arms, then carding lightly through the thatch of hair upon his breast. She grew bolder, venturing downward; Éowyn grasped her wrist and gently led her to his cock.

“You may hold it quite firmly,” she guided, and Mayda did. “Now stroke--”

Éomer all but choked on his breath as Mayda moved the tight channel of her fingers in a slow stroke-- up and down, circling with curious tenderness at the top. But then she opened her fist, and he made a low sound of protest, sinking his teeth in his lip as she let him drop.

“Patience,” Éowyn chided him, leading Mayda down once more to his balls, which she cradled in her hand, her lips parting with wonder as her fingers tested their shape and weight. “Do not squeeze these too roughly, or you will spoil him for the evening!”

Éomer gave her a dirty look, but Mayda’s hand was gentle. 

“You may put his cock in your mouth, if you wish-- a hard thing, perhaps, for your first time? Here.” She set Mayda’s hand on her face and bent to him herself; her lips enclosed him and she slid down, hot liquid velvet. Mayda gasped, her fingers touching Éowyn’s lips where they stretched around him, following as she slid all the way down and up again. 

“You should suck upon him as hard as you may if you do that, but have a care-- they are quite delicate, and will complain without ceasing if you catch them too sharply with your teeth!”

Éomer growled softly to himself with irritation, left to cool in the air, his balls throbbing. He endured their maddening caresses and Éowyn’s lessons for a time, until he judged no more might be taught by words, then caught Mayda’s wrist and drew her hand away, pressing her onto her back. 

It was his turn to explore.

He stroked her with his uppermost hand, savoring the soft curves of her arms, her waist-- her breasts, her bottom. When she relaxed enough to slide her legs apart, inviting more, he slipped his hand between her thighs and brought it up to her wet curls.

She murmured pleasure into his mouth when he touched her as Éowyn had done; her body eased even more, fear flowing out of her by degrees until she was writhing against him in her urgency, her body pleading for more without words.

“A good man will do this always for his lady,” Éowyn said fiercely, stroking Éomer’s spine with the flat of her palm. “He will please you with his fingers or with his lips and tongue. He will not simply take what he wishes and leave you cold, or kindle your desire, then leave you wanting after he has spent his own lust. If you are canny and do not show your hand overmuch, you can perhaps teach Garulf to be a tolerable husband, one who will do this for you. He is yet young and his ways may be molded.”

Éomer pressed Mayda gradually onto her back and slid atop her; she welcomed him with innocent abandon, arms wrapping about his waist, thighs parting on instinct to cradle his heavy body.

“It will hurt at first,” Éowyn warned softly, nuzzling at Mayda’s ear. “No matter how much care milord takes. But you are of the eorlingas. You will endure the brief pain-- and very soon it will not hurt. Then it will become pleasure.” She twined the fingers of their left hands; her right stroked Mayda’s breast, soothing her, thumb strumming at her nipple until she sighed and calmed, then shifted, her thighs relaxing about Éomer.

He kissed her lips softly and positioned himself, then pressed firmly-- not too fast, but not withdrawing when she gasped, for such a mistaken mercy would only prolong the hurt. A little, a little more, more-- then the thick of him pushed past the resistance, and Mayda lay open beneath him, her lips parted wide on a gasp, her body taut with pain-- his entire cock buried in her, her soft luscious body quivering in his arms. He smiled, unable to resist the thrill of triumph-- first within her, first to claim and possess her beauty, he would be the only one to feel the tight clasp of her maiden’s flesh yield to him! 

Éowyn rolled her eyes at him as if she divined his thought, but she was smiling, stroking her fingers through Mayda’s hair. “That is the worst of it,” she said. “It is not so bad, is it?”

“N-no,” Mayda whispered. The quiver of her lip and the easy indifference of Éowyn’s words-- they made him long to crush Mayda beneath his mouth and have her roughly so that she would not share his sister’s disregard of him in this moment-- but he restrained himself instead, mindful of his duty.

He stilled, sheathed in Mayda, and let her grow used to him, nuzzling at her neck. Éowyn was not idle, stroking her and whispering to her, soothing her as if she were a skittish horse, finally slipping a hand between their bodies and teasing at Mayda’s slick center until she wakened her passion once more.

“Now it will be better. He is very good; he will pleasure you now, and he will be first to spend his seed inside you. You have given this gift to him, and no other may take that from either of you.”

Mayda nodded, her throat working as she swallowed, her soft lips parting in a gasp as Éomer stirred.

“Oh,” she moaned as he rocked slightly back, then sheathed himself fully again. 

“You are strong,” Éowyn murmured, exultant. “You can take all he offers.” She sealed her mouth over Mayda’s, and watching them kiss, Éomer could not remain still, hips rocking farther with each thrust until he was moving steadily, Éowyn’s fingers gliding little circles just above the spot where his cock slid in and out of Mayda’s body, keeping her hot and willing.

Mayda was naturally quite tight, and he was soon perspiring, biting his lip and holding back; her thighs spread farther and she lifted herself, trying to take more of him, her nails biting into his back or his arse, urging him closer.

“That’s it,” Éowyn crooned. “Fuck her harder now, milord. She is eager for you.”

Éomer rumbled his irritation-- he could read a woman for himself, blast it!-- but he moved faster, and Mayda moaned, lifting herself to meet him. Their bodies came together hard, and Mayda writhed, then lifted again, catching fire with passion.

A slippery finger slid into his arse, then another-- Éowyn. Curse her-- bless her-- wicked and knowing, positioned behind him so that when he thrust forward and back her fingers fucked him, raking across the sweet spot with unerring precision. She laughed fondly at him as he lost himself in a frenzy of writhing, thrusting hard into her body, the center of a tangle of arms and breasts and legs and and slippery skin, hardly knowing whether it was Mayda he fucked or Éowyn who fucked him, until pleasure took him like a thunderclap, blazing out of him as he filled her with his seed.

Then he lay gasping atop Mayda, spent and struggling for breath, and she lay pliant beneath him, her warm hands caressing his shoulders and his ribs.

Éowyn’s meddlesome hands intruded on his peace; he realized then he had not fulfilled all his duty, and he batted her aside, cross, kissing his way down to kiss and lick at Mayda’s body, grimacing at the bitterness of his own seed but pleased by the way she writhed and wailed beneath him. 

When she lay gasping and sated at last, he raised himself and glowered at his sister, who looked upon him with fond approval. 

“So you have had the choice of giving your maidenhood,” Éowyn said, cleaning her hand upon the tail of the sheet and moving up the bed to nuzzle at Mayda’s ear and take a slow kiss. “I have given you my best lover-- would that I could give you more.”

“It is all I could wish.” Mayda groped for Éomer with a sleepy smile and laid her palm upon his waist. “I thank you, sir, for your kindness.” 

“Stay a while yet and rest before you go,” Éowyn murmured, but Mayda shook her head.

“I will be missed, and it would not do to be found here.” She lifted her chin, brave. “Cover your face, milord, and I will go to face my fate as I must-- with the courage you have given me.”

She arose, and as Éomer covered himself Éowyn led Mayda away, speaking quietly in her ear. Éomer could make out many of her words.

“When you go to Garulf’s bed for the first time, clench yourself tightly to resist his cock, then cry out as if in great pain when he takes you. You should take a small knife with you, and before the morning light waxes, you must make a cut on yourself in a place where it will not be seen, then smear the blood upon the sheets. Or if you can arrange to have him deep enough in his cups, after he sleeps you must spill a few drops of red wine upon the sheets. Men do no laundering; he will see the stain, but he will not know it is false.”

When Mayda had departed, Éomer sat up in bed, frowning at his sister. “I cannot help but feel that was ill-done on both our parts,” he said. “For Garulf does not deserve such betrayal.”

“And Mayda does not deserve to have her freedom ripped from her,” Éowyn insisted, implacable. “Garulf need not know. She will not tell him.”

“You seem to believe that the freedom to fuck who you like is all there is that is important of freedom,” Éomer frowned. “And it is more freedom than many women enjoy, yes, but it is not all. Any freedom too often sought can become a prison of its own—any joy a weariness.”

“I know of many different joys and freedoms.” He had angered her deeply, her saw, but unlike before, she did not flare with it. Instead she locked it inside, where it would burn all the hotter. “And none will prison me! I will not have it!” He saw a thing in her eyes that he did not like at all; he had seen such looks upon men who had lost their families and had no hope left of life—men who rode willing to their deaths in battle.

“A coffin is a prison like any other,” he said, harsh, and her face thinned with pain.

“At least it is one no man may hope to avoid—one I will not be condemned to suffer while others escape.” Her eyes blazed.

He understood then there was an emptiness inside her that she could not fill. It ate at her without mercy, and all that she imagined might sate it was done in vain. Though her stolen pleasures might pass an idle or lonely hour, their passing left her all the more empty thereafter.

All he might do to aid her was to fill as much time with sweetness as he could before he was sent out once more on the whim of a serving-man, the true power behind their fading king. 

“Let us not fight,” Éomer said, and reached to draw her against him, filled with remorse. “We have not much time together before I must return to the field.” He was sick with dread of it-- sick with the weight of the message he had never been able to deliver to his king, which he hesitated to speak even to his sister-- for what might she do to help the matter? 

In truth, there was no help-- not if Gondor was so sorely beset they called for Rohan’s aid, and doubly not if Gondor’s embassy had been so coldly rejected. 

The foes of Rohan were not only bands of orcs from the mountains, ill-trained and ill-armed, but an army well-trained and weaponed, many thousands of terrible uruks and orcs and goblin men, a black evil bred of wizardry. They bore the badge of the white hand and sprang from Isengard, and to Isengard they retreated. The wizard there was darkened, and Éomer and Théodred each knew it was he who turned the raiders toward Rohan. 

He and his cousin doubted in secret that the might of the mark would be enough to turn them aside. The power of Mordor was rising, and the wizard would aid its advance. 

All was in vain, then, save for what little they could steal of love and light before the end.

Éowyn knew nothing of Éomer’s cares; she nodded and slid her arms around him. “We must make the most of the days,” he told her. “And the nights, as well.”

“Yes,” she said, her expression wistful. “We must.”

*****

They lay long together, wearied by the late hour and bouts of lovemaking-- it was perhaps inevitable that the two of them overslept themselves. Éowyn roused him at last, her pale face worried.

“I can hear people moving about the halls. We will be caught!”

Éomer rose in haste and retrieved his crumpled clothing. “None need see us. You will leave through the servants’ door and say you have been attending the king in his chamber if you are seen. I will leave through the hall after you are well away.”

Éowyn listened at the servants’ portal, then darted out and vanished; Éomer counted to three hundreds slowly to himself before he emerged. It was indeed late-- nearly the noon hour, and there was no time for bathing. He must appear at the noon meal; drat it all, but both he and Éowyn would have been missed when the others broke their fasts! But surely they were not alone; many would have kept to their beds after the feasting and ale. This need be no more proof than that they had drunk too much.

He wished to foster that idea, so he made no effort to refresh himself or change his raiment, but slouched into the troops’ lodging by the stable, where kettles steamed over cookfires. He slumped down next to one, holding his head and groaning.

“You make a fine figure of a commander,” one of the sub-chiefs, Tolan, greeted him while making room. “Either you have drunk yourself into a stupor, or you have lain abed long with your lady-love until the sun is high!”

“The mead of Aldgate is strong indeed,” Éomer grunted. “Food would not go amiss-- if I can keep it in my belly.”

“This is good stewed hare and beans in broth with onion and herbs.” Tolan tasted his serving spoon and smacked his lips. “And there is barley bread baked under the coals amidst the ashes. There is no better fare here; if you would have dainty sweetmeats and wheaten flour, you must ride off to Gondor, quick as you may, and mind you fetch enough back for the lot of us!”

Éomer grunted and accepted a bowl of the good stew and a hunk of bread-- he was ravenous, and had to force himself to eat slowly, pretending to a reluctant belly. 

“We are bidden to appear in Meduseld to witness the wedding of young Garulf,” Tolan said. “Is it true that he is marrying the daughter of Edgar, warden of Helm’s Deep?”

“It is true,” Éomer grunted. “Have him sent to me, Tolan. He has no father here to speak words of wisdom. I will take this task on myself.”

“I will,” Tolan knuckled his forehead and disappeared; presently Garulf appeared, holding a half-bowl of stew.

“My lord Éomer,” he said, and sat politely. “You wish words with me?”

Éomer bethought himself of the counsel Éowyn had given to Mayda, and grimaced. 

“Your father should speak to you, but he is not here,” he said, keeping his voice quiet. “You go tonight to be wed, Garulf-- but not to a woman who knows you. This is troublesome to me.” He could not warn Garulf of Éowyn’s teachings-- but perhaps he should not. Mayda was hardly equal to her husband in the eyes of custom; she would need her advantages. 

“You must not presume she goes to your bed willing,” Éomer cautioned. “You must win her, Garulf. Court her with kindness and patience; allow her time, should she need it. Assist her in her labors however you may; she is not made to be a draft horse, but rather a racing mare-- and if you treat her ill, you will make her savage, and you will have neither.”

“It troubles me how this was arranged, but I dared not gainsay my king.” Garulf flushed. “Mayda is a beautiful lass, but I have hardly spoken to her.”

“Do so often and listen when she answers,” Éomer counseled. “Both to what she says, and to what she does not say. And in bed… tend to her pleasure before your own. Have you knowledge of such?”

Garulf flushed to the ears and shook his head once in the negative. Éomer sighed and set to providing the embarrassing instructions with grim determination, trying to ignore the burning of his own ears.

*****

The wedding took only minutes. Éowyn stood beside Mayda and Éomer stood for Garulf.

Gríma stood before them to officiate in Théoden’s stead; his cold grey eyes rested long on Éomer before he began to speak through thin lips, his words curt and unlovely as he invoked the age-old ritual of binding. The new couple spoke simple vows and Théoden roused himself enough to place his hands atop the joined hands of the wedded pair, murmuring a vague blessing, before Gríma declared the two to be wed. 

Mayda kept her chin held high and showed great courage; Éomer admired her steadiness-- and hoped he had aided her in achieving it. 

When the wedding had finished, the benches of the hall were kicked back and a mad with a fiddle stood upon a table and began to play a reel, starting the dancing. Éomer would have liked to leave, but he might not; even if he had, Éowyn was required, for there were not enough maids for all the men to squire, and her presence was needed. 

After a time Éomer judged he could no longer avoid Mayda, and claimed his right of a dance with her; she came to his arms, willing, and tilted her head at him, leaning in as the music brightened, sending the dancers whirling about them. She gazed up into his eyes, a small, secret smile upon her lips.

“You smell of milady, milord.” She dimpled at him then, and tilted her head, lips parted. “Only the lady Éowyn wears the perfume of roses-- a gift from Boromir of Gondor.”

Éomer regarded her with alarm as he realized his secret was known. Mayda’s cheeks colored prettily and she looked up at him through her thick lashes. “The gift of your presence at our wedding was a great boon,” she said. “You will always be welcome at our hearth.”

“Thank you,” he stammered, too awkward to speak more fully, and was glad when the dance separated them. He slipped away from the hall and strode out onto the terrace, where a full moon had risen over the plains, casting the city in stark planes of light and shadow. Éomer chewed his lip, worried, and very nearly jumped out of his skin when another person appeared suddenly downwind of him without making a sound.

Gríma also stood still, looking out toward the plain, seeming to regard Éomer not at all.

“It is a chill night,” he said at last, his voice like oiled silk. “Frost will come before morning.”

Éomer grunted, having no wish to speak to Gríma. Remembering Mayda’s words, he took a half-step away from the king’s aide, but Gríma shuffled alongside him once more, directing a smirk up toward his face. Gríma’s nostrils flared as he took a deliberate, deep breath of cold night air, and a pang of panic shot through Éomer’s composure. 

“It is a beautiful thing to see a well-matched couple wed,” Gríma said, a seemingly idle thought. “And a pity it is when a couple is not so well-matched.”

Éomer glanced down at him, wary. 

“I once saw a terrible thing,” Gríma continued, conversational; there was a joyful note in his voice that sent shudders sliding along Éomer’s spine. “A woman, whipped in the town square of Morton. A terrible case. Her husband could not sire a child, it was said-- and so she turned to her own kin. She gave her brother ale until he was so addled from drink he did not know her, then went to his bed.” He paused, and the dread grew sick in Éomer’s belly, the shudder turning to icy sweat running down his ribs. “She was with child-- an abomination, truly!” 

The moonlight caught Gríma’s white face as he turned it up to study Éomer’s. “They stripped her naked and flogged her through town until the bones showed all along her back, then turned her out onto the moor in the snow,” Gríma said, the icy satisfaction in his voice distinct even as it lowered to a whispering hiss. He paused, a weighty moment during which Éomer could hear his own blood thundering in his ears. “I should not like to see such a thing again.”

“Mayda of the Hornburg has no brother.” Éomer fought to keep his voice light, uncaring. “So you may set your worries at rest on that score.”

“Indeed. Indeed.” Gríma nodded, an exaggerated bobbing of his head, and changed the subject. “A messenger came before the king today while you were yet... abed,” he slid his eyes toward Éomer, and they glinted coldly under the pale moon. “Orcs are massing on the far side of the Isen, and Théodred calls for aid. Messages have been sent to all the holds and towns; your éored will ride forth before dawn and men will follow to reinforce your troops and Théodred’s.

“If you wish to keep the king’s goodwill, you will lead the eorlingas into battle, and you will not return until you have routed the orcs and ensured that none will ever return.” Gríma’s delight was back, dancing and capering in his eyes, which shone with unholy malice as the door to the hall opened, torchlight and laughter spilling out. “I am sure you have every reason to wish for Théoden-king’s continued… tolerance... of your idle whims.”

Éomer’s stomach felt as though he had swallowed the leaden ball from a catapult’s sling, and his head buzzed with bright panic.

“I will ride out and lead the men as the king commands,” he agreed, mild as milk perforce. There was no hope of defeating the might of Isengard-- but what else might he do to try to keep his sister safe? And what might he ever do to buy Gríma’s silence, even if the battle were won? The price would be steep, and it would grow ever higher. 

“Prepare for swift departure, Éomer son of Éomund.” Gríma smiled in triumph and bowed with false respect, his robes brushing the frozen earth. He returned to the mead hall, closing the heavy door behind him.

Éomer drew a deep, shuddering breath, quashing a pang of fearful sorrow for his sister’s plight. Setting his jaw, for there was nothing else he might do, he went down from Meduseld into Edoras to prepare the provision and muster of his men.


End file.
